


Coming of Age

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (it gets resolved), Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming of Age, Consensual Teen Sex, Domestic, Eventual Johnlock, Friends to Lovers, John is a single parent, M/M, Mostly teen with some mature content, Mutual Pining, POV Outsider, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Retirementlock, Romance, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Sex, Sussex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not easy growing up when your father is best friends with Sherlock Holmes.<br/>It’s even harder when you stumble across their secret.</p><p>(A companion to  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7000585/chapters/15948226">Public, Private, Secret</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I was seven-and-a-half years old when I was nearly expelled from school for punching a boy who called me a liar. I was quickly hauled to the headmaster’s office and made to sit on a hard metal chair to await my punishment.

I crossed my arms and scowled at my feet encased in stiff black shoes. I hated those dumb shoes. No matter how many puddles or scuffs on the pavement I subjected them to, I couldn't destroy them. I kicked my toe against the floor. This was all Sherlock Holmes’ fault.

The famous Mr. Holmes was in the news again, his sharp-angled face plastered on the newspapers and telly for having recovered some priceless old painting from art thieves.

I couldn't resist bragging on the playground that I knew Sherlock Holmes. I had stupidly added that I’d even been to his flat and had seen a real human skull on his fireplace mantle.

“Liar.”

I whirled around to face Tommy Stewart, an ugly sneer on his face.

“It's true,” I shot back, my cheeks turning red. “I've met him lots of times.”

“You're just making that up.”

“I am not! My dad knows him. They're friends.”

By this time a group of kids had gathered to gawk.

Tommy cocked his head to the side, not believing me. “Liar.”

I clenched my fist. My temper runs too hot. My aunt tells me that all the time.

“You take that back.” I stepped forward menacingly.

A streak of fear shot through Tommy’s eyes, but he didn't back down. “You're nothing but a liar.”

“You shut up!” In a burst of frustration, I lashed out, my knuckles bashing satisfyingly into Tommy’s fat freckled cheek.

Tommy howled out in pain and stumbled backwards as boys and girls jeered and shouted excitedly at the fight. Several teachers rushed over and waded through the crowd, one seizing me roughly by the arm.

“Olivia Watson, you are in serious trouble.”

I sat through the headmaster’s stern lecture about my unacceptable behavior, glowering at the front of his heavy oak desk all the while. I knew what they thought of me. Just another troubled girl, angry, out of control, raised by a single parent.

“I've telephoned your father.”

My head snapped up at this announcement and my stomach dropped.

“He’ll be coming to take you home. You are suspended for the rest of the week.”

I nodded tightly. I told myself I didn't care. My hand was throbbing. I stood up to go wait in the hallway.

“Miss Watson, I expect you to follow our rules and behave like a civilized human being, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled. Stupid Sherlock Holmes, getting me suspended.

I hunched on the metal chair in the hallway until I heard familiar quick footsteps tapping on the linoleum.

My father appeared around the corner, his mouth set in a hard line, the shoulders of his jacket askew as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry.

He glared as he approached, jabbing one warning finger at me before entering the headmaster’s office. “I had to leave work early. You and I,” he said evenly, “are going to have a talk.”

He disappeared behind the closed door to face the headmaster, and for the first time I felt like crying. But I didn’t.

 

******************

 

The talk came later, at home over tea. I pushed a biscuit around on my plate as I half-listened to all the reasons I needed to learn to control my anger and the dire consequences if I didn’t.

I broke off a piece of a biscuit and crumbled it between my fingers. “But I wasn’t lying.”

Dad stopped and looked at me, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was more silver than I remembered. Sitting across from him, I could smell the antiseptic and soap scent of the hospital on his clothing.

It was unusual for us to see each other at this time of day. He was a doctor and worked odd hours, so I spent a lot of time with Aunt Harry.

“Did you at least keep your thumb on the outside of your fist?” he finally asked me.

I sneaked a glance at him. He’d told me about patients who’d broken their own thumbs by keeping them wrapped inside their fingers when they threw a punch. He called them fucking amateurs. He sometimes swore in front of me, which was thrilling. “Yes, I remembered.”

“Good. But don’t ever hit anybody again. Unless you have to.”

I knew the lecture was done. I crammed a biscuit into my mouth and took a sip of tea. Sensing an opening, I decided to ask him something that had been bothering me.

“Why don't you go on cases with Sherlock anymore? Then you'd be in the news, too, and no one would say I was lying about knowing him.”

Dad looked at me strangely, then smoothed his hand over the tabletop, sweeping away tiny crumbs. “Those days are over.”

“He still texts you about medical stuff, right? Couldn’t you help out once in awhile?”

He smiled wryly at me. “And leave you here alone while we're out chasing bad guys?”

I frowned, not sure if he was making fun of me.

“You know I can’t do that, Liv,” he said more gently. “The hours are insane, the pay is unpredictable, and it's certainly not safe. I need to work and make sure you're taken care of.” He half smiled at me again. “All of that was a long time ago.”

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug. I knew I was the reason he had stopped working with Sherlock. He had to, because my mother abandoned us when I was still a baby.

I don’t remember a thing about her. Dad will only say that she was not the person he thought he’d married. It’s scary to think that even adults make big mistakes.

I looked up at him again. “Do you miss it?”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “What, all the stuff with Sherlock?” He fussed with the handle of his mug, turning the cup this way and that. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

His hands stilled, then he cleared his throat. “Anyway, you're trouble enough to keep me busy, aren't you?” He was teasing, and nudged my foot. “Go clean your room. I've got to call your aunt.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up, then loitered for a moment, pulling at a lock of my dark blonde hair. “Dad?”

“Hm?”

“I'm sorry.”


	2. Chapter 2

I suspected most grown-ups had a lot of secrets. I watched too much television (much of it without my dad knowing), soaking up stories about every kind of deception -- fake identities, love affairs, drinking and drugs and gambling, long-lost relatives that suddenly reappeared.

My family seemed to be made of secrets. There was my mother, of course, whose shadowy existence I wanted to keep at a distance. If she didn't want to think about me, I didn't want to think about her. 

Then there was Aunt Harry, who now talked about everything that she used to hide. She was a few years older than my dad, and a few inches taller, which she never let him forget. I learned that for years, she and Dad had barely spoken to each other. She didn't even go to his wedding. 

“I was a drunk,” she told me plainly when I asked her why she and Dad had fallen out. “I wasn't a very happy person back then. I made everyone else miserable, too.

“But then one day,” she went on, folding a basket of laundry as I sat on her floor drawing a picture of an imaginary solar system, “I decided I needed to change. And I got sober.”

I colored in a red stormy planet as she told me this. I loved how she talked to me, not sugar-coating words. She was the most honest person I knew. 

Harry was divorced and lived alone. She still kept a photo of her ex-wife on her bedroom dresser. I had a lot of time to explore Harry's flat, since I was there most days after school and whenever Dad had to work weekends. 

Harry worked from home transcribing legal documents of some sort, and would often take me to coffee shops or museums or a movie when she needed to get out into the real world. People sometimes assumed we were mother and daughter, which I secretly enjoyed.

My dad wasn't exactly an open book, though. He had been in the Army, but he didn't talk much about it. I once found a walking cane deep in the back of a closet and was playing with it when he passed by my room.

“Look what I found,” I pretended to limp around like an old lady. “Was this yours?”

“It was. I needed it after I came home from Afghanistan.”

“Did you break your foot or something?”

“No, it was my leg. Well, my shoulder, actually. I was injured and sent home.”

I scrunched up my face, confused. “So you needed a cane for your shoulder?”

“No, not exactly.” He had that look of not wanting to delve into a complicated story. “My leg’s better now, that's all that matters.”

“Then why do you still keep this?” I hobbled around my room, now pretending to be an evil witch.

He watched me, his eyes sliding to the cane. “Just to remember.”

 

*************

I guess I look more like my dad than my mother, who I've only seen in a few photographs. I squint at myself in the mirror sometimes, and I see an average girl with shoulder length hair, skinny shoulders, and an odd nose that I hope I grow into. 

The best part of my face is my eyes. They're dark blue with long lashes. Sherlock told me once that I had my father’s eyes. I joked that I’d better give them back, and he glanced at me sideways with a pained expression, then smiled.

We saw Sherlock fairly often, stopping by his flat to visit for an hour or two. I wandered around looking at all the strange things in the room -- the skull, different types of bullets neatly displayed in a glass case, a brass statue of a dog, insects pinned to a board -- and sometime he’d let me look through the microscope if it was set up on the kitchen table.

I’d usually lose myself in a book or listen to music and play games on my phone while they chatted, since adult conversations were generally pretty dull. I’d occasionally catch intriguing snippets about “motive” or “time of death,” but remained slumped on the sofa nibbling on biscuits or an apple.

Sometimes I’d stare at the wall covered with Sherlock’s case notes, a maze of clippings and photos and receipts and ticket stubs and maps, trying to decipher what he saw in all the mess. 

It always took forever for us to leave, the farewells almost complete, then some other thread of conversation beginning, the two of them standing at the top of the stairs, me pulling impatiently at Dad’s sleeve.

They’d finally shake hands, and Sherlock would look directly at me, which sometimes made me a little nervous. He was an imposing man. 

“Goodbye, Olivia.” His voice was deep and serious, not that fake jolly tone so many adults use with kids. I was glad he never did anything annoying like ruffle my hair or chuck my chin.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he called as we tramped down the steps. From the corner of my eye I saw Dad turn and glance back up the stairs, his gait slowing to a halt.

I pulled on his hand, not wanting them to start talking again. He was still gazing up the stairs, and I had to tug hard to get him to move.


	3. Chapter 3

Dad sometimes had to travel to conferences, so I would stay with Aunt Harry. She had a comfortable couch that I would snuggle into and drift to sleep listening to an old black-and-white movie with the sound turned low. I liked having the TV on in the background; it filled the silence with a comforting murmur.

I had a few friends at school, and sometimes I’d go over to someone’s house to play or for a sleepover, but I was by and large a loner. I didn’t really mind being alone, which seemed hard for people to understand.

Aunt Harry understood, though. She was a loner too. Once, when Dad was away on a trip, Harry and I were in her kitchen eating Chinese takeaway, and I asked her if she thought she’d ever get married again.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she pushed the rice around on her plate with wooden chopsticks. “I suppose if I met the right person I’d consider it.”

I speared a piece of chicken. “Why does everyone think getting married is so important?”

She laughed. “Good question. Although, it is nice to have someone you can depend on, who’s there for you no matter what…” she trailed off, and I could tell she was thinking about how her own marriage had failed. “Well, in an ideal world, anyway.”

“I think I know three people whose parents aren’t divorced,” I announced, switching to a fork to scoop up my food. “So why even bother getting married?”

Harry shrugged. “Commitment?” she offered. “Hope?”

I chewed thoughtfully for a while. “Do you think my dad will ever remarry?”

Harry choked on her mouthful of food, either surprised or amused by the question. “Your dad,” she finally managed to say, “still has a lot to figure out.”

I looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean? He’s, like… old.”

“Not _that_ old,” Harry snapped back. “I mean, your dad just needs to figure out what he really wants, that’s all.”

“Huh.” Didn’t adults know _anything?_ Wasn’t knowing stuff the whole point of being an adult?

“Relationships aren’t that easy,” Harry continued, seeing the doubt on my face. “Sometimes the timing is all wrong. And sometimes, even when you get it right, you mess it up anyway.”

“Sounds horrible.”

Harry sighed. “It can be. But it can be wonderful, too.” She crumpled up her napkin and threw it on her empty plate. “Anyway, best learn to take care of yourself, enjoy what you’ve got, and if someone comes along --” she held up her hands, “great. If not, great. Let’s have ice cream.”

 

****************

 

I thought about the relationship talk with Aunt Harry quite a bit, trying to imagine what kind of partner would suit her or my dad. I was probably about nine years old then, and wondering why Dad didn’t date anyone.

It wasn't that surprising, I guess. First of all, he was really busy, and second, having your wife leave you would probably ruin the whole idea of girlfriends and marriage.

Maybe he did go out on dates and I just didn’t know it. He was away a lot and often worked late, so maybe he had dinner or drinks with someone. I could be pretty blind about those kind of things. Thankfully, he never brought anyone home, and I was never forced to go to an awkward Saturday lunch to meet my dad’s “new special friend” like some of my classmates had to.

I didn’t really want a new mom or anything. I had Dad and Aunt Harry, and that was enough. Their parents had died before I was even born, so I didn’t even have grandparents. It’s hard to miss what you’ve never had.

We lived just outside of London near Aunt Harry, and on weekends Dad and I would often take the train into the city to do some shopping or see a film or try a new restaurant. I loved those long Saturdays, just strolling around and chatting with each other.

I think Dad missed living in the city, but he never complained about it. We inevitably ended up at Sherlock’s for a visit, and it was nice to have a place to rest our feet and have a bite to eat before heading home.

I suppose I regarded Sherlock as sort of an uncle. He was one of the few adults who would willingly play board games with me, and utterly cheat while doing it. I loved that. If he broke a rule on his turn, I’d break a rule on my turn, until the game turned into a chaotic battle. Dad would roll his eyes and walk away, muttering.

Around the time I was mulling over relationships, I was playing a game of Cluedo with Sherlock one Saturday while Dad was out picking up something for us to eat.

Sherlock was moving his game piece into the ballroom where the revolver lay. I was curious about something.

“You've never been married, have you?” I blurted out the question without any context, but he took it in stride.

“Certainly not.”

“How come?”

“I don't believe in it.” He studied his cards. “It's an antiquated institution doomed to fail. Plus, I despise almost everyone. And most people hate me. Hand me the rope.”

I passed him the plastic piece of coiled rope. “That’s not true.”

“Which part?”

“People hating you. I don't hate you. Dad doesn't hate you.”

“Well, that's two people.” He moved several pieces around the board according to our own made-up rules. “Besides, some of us are better off alone.”

“You sound like Aunt Harry,” I plotted my next move in the game. “She lives alone too, you know.”

He gave me a look. “Don't even suggest it.”

I pulled a face. “I wasn't. You're not exactly her type.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” he replied airily.

While I focused on moving my pieces around, Sherlock asked me a question. “Your dad… Does he ever go out… On dates?”

The words sounded funny coming from Sherlock, as if they were foreign words he was testing out.

“No. I don't think so.”

“Hm.”

“Maybe you and Dad should move in together when you're really old,” I suggested helpfully. “You know, to take care of each other. Because what if I get a job that's far away and Aunt Harry moves or something? I could come visit you both.”

He folded his hands together and pressed them against his mouth, and I could tell he was smiling at me even though there was something sad in his eyes. I guess no one wants to think about growing old.

“I like that idea,” he said quietly.

I smiled back, proud that I'd thought of it.

He dropped his gaze back to the game, seeming lost for a moment, then pulled himself back together again. “Now, then, where were we?”


	4. Chapter 4

There were weekends when Dad would text Sherlock to let him know we were in the city and he'd wait for a reply, repeatedly checking his phone. Some days no reply ever came, and I could tell it bothered him.

“Must be on a case,” he’d say, pushing his phone back into his pocket. On the train back home he'd check his phone several more times.

“Are you worried?” I asked once.

He flinched, as if I'd caught him doing something wrong. “No. I'm sure he's fine. He knows how to take care of himself.”

I saw his thumb sweep over his blank phone screen, a nervous habit.

“You could call him, just to make sure.”

“That's alright. Maybe later.”

Something did go wrong one Friday evening when I was about 12 years old. We were at home, Dad reading a book and getting distracted by the show I was watching on TV. It was a crime thriller, and Dad would occasionally offer a critique.

“Bullocks. The body would never decompose that quickly.”

“No lab could turn around an analysis that complex in an hour.”

His phone rang, sparing me from any more observations. I didn't pay attention until he sat up, his back going rigid, and I knew it was bad news.

“Right, I'll be there soon as I can.” He ended the call and stood up. “Liv, turn that off and get your coat.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock’s been taken to the A&E. We need to go.”

“Can't you drop me off at Aunt Harry’s?”

“Just come with me. Now.”

I knew not to argue with that tone of voice.

By the time we arrived at the emergency department, Sherlock was patched up and looking very disgruntled about the whole situation. He was perched on an exam table with his sleeves rolled up, his left hand cradling his bandaged forearm.

“I'm fine. You didn't need to come all this way,” he growled when he saw us enter.

My dad stood squarely in front of him. “Greg called and said you got yourself beaten and stabbed.”

“Bruised and grazed.”

“Thirteen stitches and a possible concussion does not equal grazed,” Dad challenged him through clenched teeth. “You can't go home alone like this.”

Sherlock flicked his gaze over to where I stood uncertainly by the door. “What do you think, Olivia?”

I saw the dark circles of fatigue under his eyes, the blood on his shirt. “I think my dad’s a doctor and you're not.”

Dad turned and grinned at me, then turned triumphantly back to Sherlock, who sighed in resignation.

We took a taxi back to Sherlock’s flat so Dad could monitor the unwilling patient. It was late, and Dad tucked me into the bed upstairs in the spare room. I knew it used to be his room when he lived here, and that made it feel familiar to me.

“Good night, Liv. Sorry for spoiling your evening,” he said, pulling the covers up over my shoulder.

I yawned. “This was more exciting than the telly,” I mumbled before closing my eyes.

I woke up at some odd hour needing a drink of water. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and crept blurry-eyed down the stairs. A lamp was still on in the sitting room. I heard quiet voices, Sherlock’s deep rumble and Dad’s low replies.

I paused outside the door to the kitchen to let my eyes adjust. Sherlock and Dad were sitting across from each other at the table. They were both in shirt sleeves, collars open, shoes off. At ease.

Sherlock had his bandaged arm outstretched on the tabletop, and my dad’s hand was extended toward it. I couldn’t see what he was doing, my view obscured by a pile of books and files. Maybe he was checking the bandage or taking his pulse.

Sherlock was watching my dad carefully, a look on his face I’d never seen before. Soft.

My dad glanced up at him, and they held each other’s gazes, some unspoken conversation going on between them as they reached across the table.

I took a step forward, then hesitated, belatedly realizing I was interrupting something private. The movement was enough to catch their eyes and they both looked over at me. Dad withdrew his hand and straightened up in his chair.

“Hi, sweetie,” he said.

I walked forward reluctantly, noticing a pillow and blanket stacked neatly on the sofa. “I need a drink of water.”

Dad got up and filled a glass of water for me. “Here you go.”

I took the glass. Sherlock was toying with the bandage on his arm.

“Good night,” I finally said.

They both said good night to me. I climbed the stairs and returned to the still-warm bed, mystified by adults again.

I woke up early, needing to pee. I laid in bed, listening carefully to see if anyone else was up yet.

I didn’t hear anything, but there was no putting it off. I had to go downstairs to use the bathroom.

The sitting room was dim, the early morning light filtering weakly through the tall windows. I tiptoed past the couch. The pillow and blanket were still sitting there, untouched.

My eyes went to Sherlock’s bedroom door. It was closed.

The concussion. You were supposed to check on the patient every few hours, right? Dad must have been sitting up with Sherlock all night, I reasoned.

I sneaked into the bathroom and did my business as quietly as possible, not even bothering to flush. It was too embarrassing to make that much noise so early in the morning.

As I left the bathroom, I heard a gentle sigh in the bedroom next door, as if someone was rolling over to find a more comfortable position, nestling into the delicious softness of a pillow. There was a creak of bed frame, a low murmur. Silence. Another creak, another sigh.

I felt like I was eavesdropping, so I scampered back upstairs, diving under the covers again. I thought about the two of them living here all those years ago, wondering how often Dad had to watch over Sherlock, treat his injuries, pull him out of harm's way.

It wasn't safe work, what Sherlock did, and yet I couldn't picture him doing anything else. I think that's why Dad put up with him. There was no one else quite like Sherlock Holmes.

 

**************

 

The blanket and pillow had disappeared from the sofa by the time I returned downstairs for breakfast. I didn’t say anything about it, and Dad said nothing to me except for the usual morning greetings.

He was barefoot, mussy haired, sipping coffee and making eggs like any other Saturday morning at home. Sherlock was still resting, nowhere to be seen.

Aunt Harry picked me up later that morning while Dad stayed with Sherlock the rest of the weekend to make sure he was okay and, as Dad put it, didn’t do anything stupid.

Dad said good-bye to us at the top of the stairs. He gave me a kiss on my forehead. “Be good. I’ll see you soon.”

Then he looked at my aunt. “Thanks, Harry.”

She gave him a tired smile, then flicked her eyes over Dad’s shoulder to where Sherlock was in the kitchen pouring hot water from the kettle into a tea mug. “No Vicodin for him, I presume?”

“I heard that,” Sherlock said without looking up. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.”

“Just being vigilant,” Harry answered breezily.

“Don’t you two start,” Dad muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Harry and Sherlock seemed to enjoy needling each other, sometimes at the expense of the comfort of those around them. Only this time I didn’t get the joke, and I asked her about it on the way home.

“What’s Vicodin?”

Harry looked slightly guilty. “It’s a painkiller that can be very addictive. Don’t want Sherlock going down that road again.”

I stared out the train window. I knew about Sherlock’s past drug use, information Harry had shared with me along with her own story of alcoholism. She certainly didn’t glamorize any of it for me.

“You don’t like Sherlock, do you?”

“That’s not true!” she protested. “I like him fine.”

“Then why are you so mean to each other?”

She sighed. “Sometimes it’s just easier to communicate that way.”

“Like code?”

“Sort of,” she pulled at a thread on her coat. “And I’m being a little protective.”

“Of me?”

A look flashed across her face like she was going to say something else, but then she smiled and bumped her shoulder into mine. “Yeah, of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading -- I'd love to hear your thoughts on this so far. (Or at any point, really.)
> 
> [Visit me on Tumblr](http://221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

I was 14 when Sherlock's father died. I’d never met him and there was no reason for me to go to the funeral, but I wanted to. I'd never been to a funeral before and it felt like a grown-up thing to do. I was in a phase of trying to be mature, wanting to wear a bit of makeup and drink over-sugared coffee with cream and think about what kissing would be like.

I wasn't particularly convinced about any of it (except for the coffee, which I liked), but I was experimenting, trying to figure out where I fit in. Participating in a ritual to mark the end of life seemed like a much more serious addition to my adult repertoire. Plus I felt bad for Sherlock, of course.

Much to my delight, Dad had finally bought a car the previous year, so we drove to the village where the funeral was being held and where Sherlock had grown up.

I had a hard time imagining Sherlock as a boy, but then I couldn't picture Dad or Aunt Harry as kids, either. Then I tried to imagine myself being their age -- middle-aged -- and I drew a blank.

I vaguely recognized a few people who Dad knew. They smiled at me and remarked on how much I'd grown. I picked at my nail polish. The service was formal and boring, so I tried to guess who other people were based on what I could see of their dark clothing and the back of their heads.

By the time the service ended and guests were milling around to offer their condolences to the family, I had figured out who Sherlock’s brother was (tall, thin, sharp eyes and nose under a receding hairline, elegant suit) and who their mother was (silver hair pulled back, slash of fuschia lipstick, jangly bracelets and large rings, loud voice, maneuvering through the guests like a determined battleship dressed in black).

Sherlock looked impeccable but closed-down, removed, going through the motions with perfect posture and a drawn face. I lingered near the back of the church, waiting for Dad.

There was a gathering later at the Holmes’ house with many of the same people standing around with drinks and tiny sandwiches. I wandered along the edges of the room, nibbling on a piece of cheese while examining the bookshelves and photographs.

They were a handsome family, based on the few pictures on display. A black and white wedding photo of a beaming Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, a picture of the young Holmes boys playing on a beach somewhere, a few cute baby pictures, a stiff family portrait when Sherlock was maybe 18 and obviously not wanting to be there.

There were books on botany and mathematics, cookbooks and chemistry and Chaucer. A framed faded photo of an Irish Setter puppy.

Chatter floated around me. Someone had abandoned a half-empty glass of white wine on a shelf, so I stealthily palmed it and took a drink with my back turned to the room. I glanced back. I didn't see my dad and no one seemed to notice me, so I grew bolder and took another swig. I grimaced at the sour taste, but finished the wine anyway.

I was growing bored and decided to explore the house. I chose a doorway and followed a short hallway into the kitchen, then turned randomly into another passageway and up several steps. These old houses were like rabbit warrens, all twisty and turny. I hesitated at the landing, then my eye was caught by two figures at the end of the hall.

I took a quick step back, knowing I really shouldn't be in this private area of the house. As I looked closer, I involuntarily pressed myself back into the shadows. I had found my dad. And Sherlock.

They were standing close, facing each other, Sherlock's back pressed against the wall. Dad held Sherlock's arms in a light grasp just below the shoulders and was speaking in a calm, reassuring tone, his eyes casting up to Sherlock's, searching for agreement. I recognized that stance; it was the same way Dad spoke to me when I didn't want to do something but had to push through it anyway.

_Just one more hour,_ I imagined he was saying, _and everyone will be gone._

Sherlock nodded tiredly. I could tell from a distance how exhausted he was.

Dad said a few more words, sliding his palms slowly up the arms of Sherlock's dark suit, then smoothing his hands down the front. My eyes widened, surprised at the intimacy of the gesture.

His fingers trailed along the inner cut of the lapel down to the button, fixing the line of the jacket with a gentle tug.

He wasn't talking anymore. He reached up to the knot of Sherlock's tie and adjusted it slightly, then ran his hand lingeringly down the length of silky fabric, his open palm coming to a stop on Sherlock's chest.

Several heartbeats passed. Sherlock covered my dad's hand with his own and closed his eyes. He leaned down, resting his forehead against my dad's.

_I’m so tired,_ I imagined he said.

Dad curved a hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck and held him there, silent, pressed together, breathing in unison, taking refuge for a few minutes more.

I felt my breath match theirs, a lump forming in my throat. I'd never witnessed such raw tenderness between two people. I was unable to tear my eyes away, not sure how to make sense of what I was seeing. It wasn’t kissing, but this -- the intimate way they were touching -- was more than a friend comforting a friend.

I was numb, confused, somehow managing to slip silently back down the stairs as if my body had dissolved into millions of tiny weightless particles. I stumbled out the kitchen door and into the cold evening air, walking blindly toward our car parked along the driveway.

I pulled open the door and curled into a ball on the back seat, my eyes stinging with tears in the darkness.

I had been trying so hard to act grown up, sneaking sips of wine and wearing eyeliner, when all this time something much more significant had been going on right in front of me. This intimacy, relationship, whatever the right word was, was their secret. And they didn't want anyone -- not even me -- to know.

 

****************

 

I claimed I had a headache and wasn't feeling well when Dad found me later. I was pale and puffy eyed, sitting on an overstuffed chair in a study located off the main room. The other guests were departing, restoring some semblance of peace.

Dad put his hand on my forehead, checking my temperature. He sat on the ottoman in front of me, his expression concerned. I couldn't look at him.

“It's been a long day,” he finally said.

“Can we go now?” I pleaded.

“Actually, we’re staying here tonight.”

“I thought you booked a room at the inn!” My voice rose in a petulant whine.

“We were invited to stay here.”

“Christ,” I muttered, kicking the ottoman. I wanted nothing more than to get away from this place.

Dad’s posture stiffened. “You were the one who wanted to come along. Now stop acting like a spoiled child.”

I glared at him.

“I think you need some rest,” he said evenly. “I'll show you where your room is and bring your things in.”

I followed him, sulking, to a small room off the hallway where I’d seen them together earlier. I flopped down on the bed and laid there, ignoring him when he came back with my overnight bag. He gave me a long look as I dug out my headphones and turned up my music. Eventually, he just went away.

I kept to myself, accepting the plate of food Dad brought up to me with minimal conversation. I brushed my teeth and changed into pajamas, texted a few friends. I finally switched off the lamp and lay in the quiet room, my mind inevitably turning to what I didn't want to think about.

The hallway.

Their hands. Their foreheads.

After I left, did they kiss?

_Stop._

I turned over onto my side and stared at the wall.

They had known each other a long time, Dad and Sherlock. They'd worked together, lived together, and still saw each other regularly.

My dad was straight, wasn't he? He’d married a woman, after all. But then, so had Aunt Harry…

And Sherlock was -- well, he just didn't seem interested in any of that. I guess you should never assume anything about people.

Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. They were best friends. Sherlock was grieving. Maybe the embrace in the hallway was so intense because of the funeral, the heaviness of death.

But the slow stroke down the tie. Sherlock melting into my dad, needing him. Their hands wrapping over wrist and nape…

I turned over onto my other side.

I wasn't stupid; I knew what sex was. I'd seen things online. Did they touch each other like that?

Oh god, I didn't want to think about it. I really, really didn't.

But I couldn't turn off my imagination.

Which room was my dad staying in? Where was Sherlock's room? At midnight, if I listened closely, would I hear the pad of feet against the floorboards in the hallway, the whisper of a door easing open and closing with a muted click? If I listened even closer, would I hear a groan of bed springs and soft sounds?

_Stop._

Starting tomorrow, I decided, I would watch them more carefully. I would observe their behavior in this new light and decide what to think once I had more information. It was the reasonable thing to do. It's what a detective would do. And it would finally allow me to sleep.

 

******************

 

During breakfast I glanced frequently and furtively at my two subjects. Sherlock was drinking coffee while reading the paper. My dad was tucking into beans and toast, scrolling through messages on his phone. They were completely dull.

When we stood by the car finally ready to leave, Sherlock looked at me.

“Thank you for coming, Olivia.”

I shrugged awkwardly, not sure what to say.

He turned to my dad and held out his hand. Dad took it solemnly, then pulled Sherlock into a brief hug, one of those where you clap your mate on the back once or twice. Nothing remarkable.

I slid into the passenger seat, already bored thinking about the drive home. I sighed, still waiting for Dad. How bloody long did it take to say good bye?

I glanced out the driver’s window, and my eye was caught by a glint in the side mirror. I tried to make out what was shining, and realized it was the square face of my dad’s watch catching the mid-morning sun.

Dad and Sherlock were standing by the boot of the car. I could see them partially reflected, just their arms and torsos. Surely they had to be almost done.

I was about to look away when another movement caught my eye. Framed in the oval mirror, I saw their hands twining together, clasped low near their hips, intended to be out of view. Sherlock’s thumb glided over the back of Dad’s hand, caressing his skin. They stood still for another moment, then reluctantly separated in a slow tangle of fingers.

I swallowed and made another mental note.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my confession. I'm purposely (cruelly? annoyingly?) drawing this story out, even though it's relatively short. Why, you ask? It's sort of an experiment, forcing readers to feel the passage of time between events (chapters) as Olivia grows up. 
> 
> This won't have the same effect once it's all posted, obviously, so consider yourself engaged in performance art. Yeah, that's it. :)
> 
> (Next chapters are now up, so you could pause or plunge on!)


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next weeks and months I stealthily watched them, tallying up a list of gazes and touches, fingertip brushes along shoulders and arms, shins grazing under tables, hips nearly in contact as they spoke in low tones in stairwells and hallways.

I suppose you could call it spying, but I didn’t do anything pervy like peek through windows or take sneaky photos. They just weren’t always as secretive as they thought they were. I guess they forgot that I wasn't a little girl anymore, and that I noticed more than they gave me credit for.

I never saw them kiss. It wasn't anything as blatant as that. It was more like an invisible current, a magnetic pull that drew them together in small, powerful ways. Blink and you might miss it, the private smile, the hand resting between shoulder blades, the standing a bit too close together by the sink while putting away a few dishes.

But I still didn't know what to do with this information. It wasn't like I could ask Dad about it.

I tried to say something to Aunt Harry once, coming at the subject from an angle when we were watching a movie at her house. It was romantic comedy (not a very good one) about a couple who meets in a coffee shop and falls in love.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” I asked her during a slow part of the movie.

Aunt Harry scooped a handful of crisps from the bag sitting between us. “It’s a nice idea,” she said between crunches, “but I don’t really buy it. I think there must be more than one person out there to fall in love with.”

I considered this for a moment. “What about best friends? They’re sort of like soulmates, aren’t they?”

She shrugged. “I’d say so. They know the best and worst parts about you.”

I hesitated a beat, trying to make the next words from my mouth sound casual. “Dad and Sherlock are best friends, so I guess that makes them soulmates.”

Aunt Harry didn’t answer right away, and I thought for a moment she didn’t hear me. But she finally spoke. “They have… a unique relationship.”

This was it. This was the opening I’d been waiting for. I could spill out all my suspicions and evidence and share this burden of knowing too much. But I couldn’t do it.

Maybe Aunt Harry already knew. My gut told me that she did, but that she was also keeping their secret for them. Maybe someday we’d talk about it. Not today, though. I snuggled deeper into the corner of the sofa.

“I think they need each other,” I simply said, leaving it at that.

She handed me the crisps, her eyes meeting mine with a quiet understanding. “They do.”

 

**********************

 

They wanted to keep their relationship private, for whatever reason. So I folded up my mental list like a secret letter and tried my best to bury it. They were adults and could do what they wanted. I was tired of trying to figure it all out. Besides, I was now 15 and had my own increasingly complicated teenaged life to worry about.

I fell willingly into an all-consuming world of trying to make friends and finding new music and keeping up with schoolwork and wearing glittery things, experimenting at being a Normal Girl. I floated from group to group, trying to find a tribe, hanging out with the theatre geeks in the autumn, then sneaking cigarettes with the rough crowd in the spring, joining the swim team the next year.

I was so busy negotiating my own inner and outer life that my dad became a peripheral object; always there on the edges, but no longer my central focus. There was always something more important. An essay to write. A boy I liked. Swim practice. A pair of shoes I really wanted. Exams. A first kiss, dry and unmagical. More kisses, a broken heart. Sad music and bad poetry. Discovering I liked to write, but feeling conflicted because I also liked science. I was mildly panicking at having no idea what I wanted to study at university. And then I was suddenly 17.

I drove into the city with Dad one summer Saturday. He dropped me off at the cinema where I was meeting my friend Emma for a matinee. Only she didn’t show up. I paced the pavement, swearing under my breath until my phone vibrated with a text. She was so sorry for running late; could we see the 4:00 show instead?

We’d already missed the first part of the film, so I tersely agreed to meet her later. Now I had more than two hours to kill. Miffed, I stomped back to Baker Street to wait there. Dad had lent me his spare key to Sherlock’s flat, which he still kept after all these years. I just had it for the day to let myself in after the film.

I trudged up the steps, hot and annoyed after my walk. I reached the top of the stairs and paused. A fan was whirring in the corner of the sitting room, which was dim and empty. I peered around into the kitchen, which was also empty, silent except for the steady plink of the faucet dripping into the sink. Maybe they’d gone out.

But then I heard a muffled bump coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. The door was closed. I instantly was 12 years old again, transported back to the morning I sneaked downstairs to use the bathroom and heard creaks and sighs coming from his room.

My feet moved forward on their own, gliding silently toward the bathroom. I don’t know what I was thinking, why I was so compelled to go closer, but I did.

I slipped into the dark bathroom and stood by the curtain that years ago I’d insisted be hung up to block the embarrassingly semi-transparent door that led into Sherlock’s bedroom.

I listened. Breathy, indistinguishable murmurs, soft grunts. The skin on my cheeks burned.

I knew what I was doing was wrong and invasive and despicable, but after all the years of lonely suspicions, I needed to know. I had to have irrefutable proof. And deep down, I felt entitled to spy, hurt that they'd kept me shut out of their secret, thinking me too immature to trust.

I took hold of the edge of the curtain with trembling fingers. My breath shallow, I pulled the cloth aside the tiniest bit, moving with painstaking slowness to remain unseen.

I pressed my eye to the tinted glass, pebbled and distorted. I saw them, pale silhouettes made wavy through the glass, bodies enmeshed on the bed, blurred angles of long limbs jutting out, hands clutching a broad back, legs wrapped around thrusting hips, faces buried in necks and shoulders.

They panted, ragged little moans escaping their throats.

I didn't blink, my senses seeming to pass through the thin panes. The stifling bedroom would smell musky, their sweat-slicked skin would taste of salt.

I let the curtain drop back into place.

_Confirmed._ That was the one word that burned with cold logic in my mind as my face flushed with heat at what I had seen.

They were undeniably lovers. And I had crossed a line. My behavior was reprehensible.

 

**************************

I left the flat and walked blindly until I found a coffee shop. It was a stupid choice for such warm day, but I ordered a latte anyway. I slid into a seat in the corner and nursed my drink.

I felt like the worst person on earth. Why couldn't they have just told me the damn truth so I didn't have to spy? Deep down, though, I knew I was the one at fault.

I didn't want to see the film anymore. I didn't want to face my dad or Sherlock. I texted Emma and cancelled our plans, then immediately texted Matthew, a guy I knew from school. He was on the boys’ swim team, and we were friends, maybe a little bit more. We'd messed around a few times, snogging at a party and in an equipment room by the pool.

I knew his parents were gone, off to Paris for their anniversary or something. I invited myself over to his house.

I added to my transgressions and lied to Dad, texting him that I was taking the train back with Emma and staying overnight at her place. I'd see him back at home tomorrow.

The train was stuffy and reeked of body odor. By the time I rang Matthew’s doorbell, my shirt was soaked under my armpits.

He opened the door and smiled at me. Before he could say anything, I pushed my way in and peeled off my shirt, leaving a thin white cami clinging to my skin. I turned to face him.

“I need a shower,” I said flatly. “And I want you to join me.”

Matthew was tall and smooth-chested, my hands running freely over his ass and the dip in his back as the water rained down on us. I had seen most of his body already; there was not much a Speedo could hide, after all. But I'd never touched anyone quite like this before.

We fell into his bed, wet hair and skin dampening the sheets. Naked, kissing, practically rolling over each other in a tangle of arms and legs.

I liked Matthew. I liked how he was slowing things down by kissing me more gently. I liked his mouth on my neck. I shivered when his lips hovered over my breasts, delicately placing them over one nipple, then the other.

He looked up, checking with me. “Okay?”

I nodded, then said, “Yes.”

I wanted him to go on. I let him explore me with fingers and tongue, and I reciprocated, curious, my hand curling around his cock.

I’d never had sex before, but I’d been on the Pill for awhile, just in case.

I looked Matthew in the eye, feeling rebellious, his cock hard and warm in my palm.

“Do you want to?” I whispered.

His expression shifted from surprised to grateful to nodding speechlessly. He fumbled open a box of condoms, his hands shaking a bit.

The sun was low in the sky as I angled my legs and we grimaced and gasped our way to another milestone. It was heated, quick, inexpert.

His full weight sank onto my body afterwards, his lean frame blotting out all that I had seen and heard earlier in the day, replacing it with my own visceral imprint.

As we lay together, I tried to imagine what sex would be like with someone I truly loved. Someone I’d cared about for decades, wrapping around them hungrily, then having to watch them leave.

When I crept into my house late the next morning, I mumbled a hello to Dad and locked myself away in my room.

Maybe I was a bad person. Maybe I wasn't. We all had secrets.


	7. Chapter 7

The pool became my refuge. I swam every day, my arms slicing through the water, my ears filled with the sound of my own breath and indistinct roar of other churning bodies. I swam until I was exhausted, tiring myself physically and mentally so I could sleep at night.

Gradually, I came to terms with that day -- what I had done, what I’d witnessed -- and forgave us all. It was the only thing I could do, given what I now understood.

I had been stumbling around the edges of a revelation for most of my life. Dad and Sherlock loved each other, yes; but what finally became clear to me was how agonizingly _in love_ they were.

I still didn't understand their need for distance and secrecy, although I imagined Sherlock's rather public profile was one reason. Dad was an incredibly private person. It took him years to tell me about the bullet scar on his shoulder, the nightmares, the therapy. He rarely talked about the war.

He still never talked about my mother. She was, as far as I could tell, salted earth in his mind. Obliterated. I never wanted to get on his bad side.

I was mulling all this over as I turned the house key in the lock, wondering if I should ever introduce Dad to Matthew. Dad would probably fold his arms across his chest and frown at Matthew, tilting his head in a silent challenge, daring him to speak. I really didn't want to scare Matthew unnecessarily.

Matthew and I were now a thing, whatever that meant. Basically, it was hanging out when we had time between schoolwork and swimming and worrying about our futures, which would likely diverge into two different paths once we left school.

We snogged and occasionally had sex -- quick and furtive and quiet as possible if his parents were home; slower and softer and giggly if they were away. It was a bit ironic, how all this secrecy paralleled my dad’s private life.

I slipped the house key back into my pocket and dumped my bag in the foyer. Dad was sitting on the sofa hunched over his laptop. He was wearing his reading glasses, sleeves pushed back, methodically pecking out each word.

He glanced up at me and smiled, then turned back to his keyboard.

I sprawled out in an armchair and studied him. His hair had gone almost completely silver, his face was more lined, but he was still ingrained with the military discipline to jog several times a week and do push-ups every morning. His right knee hurt sometimes, and he'd massage it after a run, muttering how aging was a cruel bastard.

I realized we hadn't really talked in a long time. I missed him.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

He tapped out a few more words. “I'm cleaning up some notes about a couple of old cases.”

“Why?”

He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Because I've had an inquiry from a publisher, believe it or not. Apparently, someone might want to read about this.”

“You mean you're writing a book?”

He shifted, unable to suppress a little grin. “We’ll see.”

“That's exciting,” I said, honestly impressed. “Does Sherlock know?”

“He knows. And he has plenty of unhelpful things to say. But I'm sure his ego will convince him it's a good idea.”

I smirked.

Dad had continued as an arm-chair consultant to Sherlock, discussing cases during visits or offering his medical expertise on gruesome photos that Sherlock sent at all hours, but he hadn't been out in the field with Sherlock for years. Or had he?

I squinted at my dad, trying to read him. All those late nights, long trips, and conferences… I often wondered how many were real, and how many were cover stories for him to be with Sherlock.

I imagined they sometimes met in distant cities, places they could be anonymous. I distinctly remember Dad returning from a trip to Barcelona looking much more tanned and invigorated than a typical conference attendee. The freckles scattered across Sherlock's cheekbones when I saw him later that same week were proof that he'd been somewhere sunny as well.

Of course, they probably stayed at Sherlock's flat more often. I still visited there occasionally with Dad, sometimes on weekends when I didn't have other plans.

Sherlock never came to our house. He always found an excuse not to visit, claiming work or an experiment prevented him from leaving. I don't think he felt at ease in the suburbs, too many playsets and lawn mowers and flower boxes for his taste. Or maybe it was just too strange for him to see Dad in such a domestic context.

Maybe parts of their worlds were just too different to blend neatly into a conventional definition of a relationship. They had found a way to make it work, but I couldn't help but think it could be better. I didn't want to be a barrier to that.

“Dad,” I started, then stopped. He glanced up at me again, waiting.

“Are you happy?” I rushed the words out before I could change my mind.

He looked at me quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you happy with the way things are?”

He gave me an odd look. “Yes, of course. We’re healthy, you're doing well in school, I enjoy my work, so yeah…”

I fidgeted. “You never wish things were different?”

“Sure, sometimes. Doesn't everybody?”

This was too vague. I needed to narrow it down. “But are you, I don't know… Are you ever lonely?”

He leaned back against the sofa, more serious now that my question was hinting at his personal life. This was new territory for us.

“I'm fine with the way things are,” he answered carefully.

“But you're stuck here with me where nothing ever happens. I'm almost done with school,” I plunged on recklessly. “I could stay with Aunt Harry until I finish, and you could move back to the city and be closer to --” I nearly said his name, but caught myself, “ -- to everything.”

When I dared to look up, Dad was staring at his folded hands.

“Liv, I'm fine,” he said again, this time softly. “I could never move without you. This is our home. You're my daughter. You're the most important person in the world to me.” His voice almost broke, and he blinked a few times, then tried to smile. “You can't get rid of me that easily. Not for a little while longer, anyway.”

My eyes were misty and my throat was choked with too many emotions to speak. It felt wonderful to be my father's priority, and it felt horrible to be the wedge still keeping him apart from Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

In addition to cooking and cleaning, these are the useful and not necessarily legal skills my father had taught me by the age of 18:

  * How to sew basic sutures
  * How to drive a standard transmission vehicle and change a flat tire
  * How to load and fire a Sig Sauer P226R



Sherlock had shown me the fundamentals of picking locks and how to find the best dim sum in any large city, so I felt relatively prepared when I finally left home to face the world on my own.

I’d decided to take a gap year and travel instead of going to university right away. I volunteered for a three-month project in southern India working on women’s health education. I ended up liking it so much that I extended my stay for another three months. The last half of the year I spent traveling, knocking around as many countries as I could afford.

I had my ass grabbed countless times and got robbed twice and food poisoning four times, but I never had to punch, suture, or shoot anyone. By the time I returned home the following summer, I was sunburned, wiry, and ready to go back to school.

My friends had already started at university. Emma was interested in psychology and Matthew was studying computer science. We had broken up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway.

I didn’t tell Dad, but I was thinking about med school. I had missed the application deadline so would have to wait, but I thought I’d try to take a course in biology and see how it went. I didn’t want to get his hopes up.

I’d only been home a week (much of that spent sleeping and roaming around the house at odd hours since my body didn’t know what time zone it was in) when I thought I might have to practice those sutures Dad had taught me.

I was dozing on the sofa when my phone buzzed on the side table, jolting me awake. I had to read the text several times before it sank in.

_Come to Baker St at once. Your dad injured. Will explain in person._

A few seconds later another text followed, clearly an afterthought:

_He’s fine_

A third message arrived belatedly:

_Welcome back_

What the hell…? The messages were from Sherlock. I sat up and tried calling, but it immediately went into voicemail. I dialed my dad; again, voicemail. What were they thinking, not answering their bloody phones?

Dad had gone into the city in the morning -- or was it yesterday? -- to run a few errands. I hadn’t really listened, my face in my pillow.

I stumbled around, trying to brush my hair and change my clothes and find my shoes. I finally raced out the door, running to catch the next train.

By the time I arrived at the door of 221B, I had imagined all sorts of terrible scenarios. Heart attack. Car accident. But why wouldn’t he be in hospital?

Sherlock opened the door before I could frantically ring the bell, somehow predicting the precise time of my arrival.

“Olivia,” he said, looking at me calmly as if there was all the time in the world.

“Where’s Dad? What happened?” I asked, glancing anxiously up the stairs.

He stepped aside to let me in. “He’s resting. I’m just making tea. Come up and I’ll explain.”

“Can you give me the short version?” I asked impatiently.

He pursed his lips. “Counterfeiters, gunshot, minor leg wound, police don’t need to know. Earl Grey?” He walked up the steps, leaving me to stare at his back.

By the time he refilled my cup, I learned that Dad had accompanied Sherlock on what was supposed to be an uneventful visit to an abandoned warehouse to check out a lead on a counterfeiting operation. Unfortunately, they surprised one of the forgers, who was armed. A bullet grazed the top of Dad’s leg. Sherlock knocked out the shooter, helped bind up Dad’s injury, left an anonymous tip for Scotland Yard, and brought him back here.

“No need to drag your father into any sort of court proceeding or publicity. Besides, it’s a superficial wound. I gave him something for the pain. He’ll need you to drive him back home.” Sherlock studied his tea, not really looking at me.

“Superficial,” I repeated doubtfully, staring pointedly at the long, thin knife scar on Sherlock’s forearm where his sleeve was rolled up.

He noticed my gaze and ran a finger over the mark. “Your father said so himself.” He looked uncharacteristically guilty.

“Why was Dad with you on a case?”

“It's hardly the first time. Things just went a bit off track.”

“You both could have been killed!” I said accusingly, feeling like I was talking to a child.

Sherlock was silent, his brash demeanor diminishing into something much more subdued.

“I know.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry.” He placed his tea cup back into the saucer with a rattle. “I didn’t see it coming.”

He pushed himself out of his chair and paced around the room, lifting a few objects here and there as if searching for something. As I followed him with my eyes, I noticed things -- the brand of coffee Dad liked tucked onto a kitchen shelf, a pair of Dad’s boots by the door, one of his cardigans hung up on a peg, a stack of his journals on the table. Little signs that led me to believe Dad had been spending quite a bit of time here during my year away.

Sherlock finally unearthed a pack of cigarettes in the back of a drawer. He held them in his hand as if debating.

“I'll have one of those,” I finally said, breaking the silence.

He regarded me for a long moment. “Can't smoke in here. Outside.” He motioned for me to follow him to the kitchen. He slid the window up to reveal a rickety looking metal fire escape. He stepped through the opening with practiced ease and the aid of long limbs. My exit was far less graceful.

I followed him up the creaky stairs to the roof. Sherlock settled his back against the low wall running along the perimeter and I joined him. He handed me the pack and I drew out a cigarette, then leaned over the flame dancing from the metal lighter in Sherlock's hand. He lit one up for himself and we smoked without speaking, taking in the skyline around us.

“You look well,” he eventually said to me.

I tilted my head at him. “You too.” He remained annoyingly handsome, his dark hair shot through with silver lending him a distinguished air.

Sherlock took a deep pull from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a long stream. He flicked ash to the side. “I'm thinking of retiring.”

I did a double take, shocked that he was confiding in me. “Are you serious?”

“It might be time for a change. A friend of mine wants to sell her cottage in Sussex Downs.”

“But… Your work. London,” I stammered. I couldn't imagine him anywhere else.

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “I’m not -- ” he stopped, his eyes trained on something far away. “I overlooked something today at the warehouse. That shouldn't have happened.”

I didn't know what to say, so I concentrated on my hands.

Sherlock went on. “It's not the first time I've thought about quitting. I'd really prefer not to make a fatal mistake at this point in my life.”

He paused again and I waited, watching the smoke curl up from the end of my cigarette.

“If anything happened to your father, I couldn't --” he bit off his words, not wanting to give voice to his thoughts.

I watched a pair of swallows dip and swoop in the sky, chasing each other over the rooftops.

“Tell him,” I heard myself saying softly. “Tell him about Sussex. Ask him to go with you.”

I could feel Sherlock scrutinizing my profile, and I exhaled a little shakily. It was time for me to say it. I turned my head to face him.

“I know, Sherlock. I know about you and my dad.”

His pale eyes held mine, his face inscrutable. Then I saw the faintest crack in the facade, a tiny tremor as years of secrecy began to collapse. He looked away.

“I've known for a long time,” I continued. “And the two of you should just… be together.”

He crushed out his cigarette. I was afraid I'd angered him because he didn't respond.

He finally let out a ragged sigh. “I suppose we should have told you. But it’s never been that easy.”

“So tell me now,” I said, wanting to understand.

He turned the lighter around in his fingers. “It goes far back, before you were even born. The moment I met your father…” he shook his head distractedly, remembering. “There was something there. I tried to deny it, didn't want it clouding my judgement, interfering with my work… But I felt it anyway. So did your dad.

“He tried, at times, to get through all the barriers I put up, but we never spoke about it. Never acted on it.” He flipped the lighter lid open and snapped it shut. “And then, I utterly betrayed your father’s trust. I disappeared for two years. He thought I was dead.”

I knew the outlines of that part -- his fake suicide and dramatic return still came up as a side note whenever he solved a particularly newsworthy case.

“By the time I came back, he’d met your mother. I was too late. He had moved on.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “And then I was born, and she left.”

There was something unspoken weighing heavily in the air, but Sherlock simply answered, “Yes.”

Since Dad would never tell me, I asked the question. “What was she like?”

The lighter snapped open and shut. “Clever, charming… An expert shot… a complex set of contradictions, and ultimately an adversary.”

Oh. Even though I had suspected something along those lines, it was jolting to hear it.

“You were the one innocent in all of this, of course. Just a baby…” he drifted off, sifting back through the years. “Your father was besotted with you. I was terrified of you. Tiny, needy thing. Then precocious as hell.” He gave me a small smile. “Despite everything, he was determined to give you as normal a life as possible.”

“The suburbs,” I said, shorthand for Dad taking a job at the hospital, dropping me off at school when he could, teaching me how to ride a bike, cooking Christmas dinners with Aunt Harry. Yet he’d never completely given up parts of his old life.

“The two of you --” I stopped, not sure how to say it delicately.

“The two of us,” Sherlock repeated slowly, “happened despite our best intentions not to.”

I furrowed my brow at him and he sighed again. “I'm not exactly a good influence, am I? Chasing after murderers and extortionists, making enemies, being a moody prick… Your dad needed to be with you, to concentrate on your well-being, not on cases or my fucked up life.” His voice was sharp, making me cringe. “We didn't want you embroiled in any of it -- the press, any sort of threat or retaliation -- so we kept it private, even from you.”

I took in his words, trying to absorb everything he was saying.

He clenched the lighter in his hand as he spoke. “The fact is, I hurt your father deeply all those years ago. He’s kept me at a safe distance -- for his sake and yours -- and I understand that. I would do anything for him, and if it means having him for only a few hours at a time, I accept that.”

His voice was hoarse and weary, and for a moment I felt guilty for being at the center of so much grief. But then I rejected that notion. I had nothing to do with the choices that three very damaged people had made long ago. Two of them still had time to put things right.

“I think,” I finally said, “that you should ask Dad how he feels about retirement.” I stood up and brushed the grit off my jeans. “I'm going to go back home so you two can talk.”

Sherlock looked up at me, seeming a bit nervous at the thought of broaching the subject with my dad. “You're sure?”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “For fuck’s sake, tell him about Sussex. Don't wait.” I turned to leave, then glanced back. “And stop worrying about me. It's about time you two sorted things out, don't you think?”

He smiled faintly. “I'm not even sure where to start.”

I paused again, suddenly feeling a rush of fondness toward Sherlock. Under all that gruff arrogance was a very human heart. “I just want you both to be happy. You deserve it.”

Sherlock held my gaze, the lighter finally at rest in his hand. “You're a good person, Olivia.”

I smiled back. “Just take good care of my dad.”


	9. Chapter 9

I guided the car down the narrow lane, trying to avoid the ruts caused by the spring rains that had fallen earlier in the week. Today was gorgeous, splashes of white and pink tree blossoms popping against the sharp blue sky.

The windows were down so I could breathe in the tangy sea air. I was feeling a bit giddy. I really hadn't spent any time outdoors since… when? All I had seen the past year seemed to be the inside of classrooms and labs.

I finally had a few days off from med school. I should have been studying, but my brain rebelled at the thought. I really didn't give a damn about the finer points of the cardiovascular system at this moment.

Soon the cottage came into sight. It always made me feel peaceful, seeing the warm color of the stonework and neat rows of windows. The house nestled into the curving green landscape as comfortably as a cat soaking up the sun. A few outbuildings, rangy flower beds, and a freshly tilled garden plot surrounded the cottage.

I pulled up to the garage and stepped out of the car. The first to greet me was Stamford, the Irish Setter. There was some special meaning about his name, but I never quite got the full story. I'd have to ask about that again.

“Hey, boy,” I rubbed behind his floppy ears and was rewarded with a thumping tail.

I threw my backpack over my shoulder and walked toward the house along a flagstone path. The door opened before I even reached the steps.

Dad stood there smiling at me, reading glasses perched on top of his head. I hadn't seen him for several months, not since the new year when he had come to London to visit me. I had moved into the Baker Street flat as a sort of caretaker. Sherlock was letting me live there for next to nothing while I was in school. All I had to do was make sure it didn’t burn down. A rent-paying student had moved into the downstairs flat. I rarely ever saw them, which was fine by me.

Dad folded me in a giant hug and I squeezed back hard, realizing how much I’d missed him. Stamford pushed by our legs to get back inside the house.

“I bet you're hungry,” Dad said, lifting the pack off my back and setting it on a chair. I followed him to the sun-filled kitchen, passing through the sitting room and a makeshift study with two desks. It was obvious which one was Dad’s (neat stacks of papers, laptop closed, everything squared away) and which was Sherlock’s (piles of paper, microscope, something suspended in a jar of liquid). One wall was covered with case notes.

I glanced at the tacked up photos and clippings. “Is he still working on that one case -- the girl who disappeared 20 years ago?”

Dad nodded. “Lestrade sent up two more cold cases after the holidays. Couldn’t have thought of a better present, really.”

“And how’s the new book coming?” I asked while strolling around the kitchen, looking out the windows at the views.

“Still editing.”

We caught up over tea -- my classes, Aunt Harry’s new girlfriend (who she met in a coffee shop, of all places), Dad’s writing, Sherlock’s cases and new fascination with honey bees.

“Bloody bees,” Dad mused rhetorically, pouring more tea into my cup. “He's going to keep an entire colony.”

I grinned, thinking how comfortable and at-home Dad looked in the cottage, his old wool jumper fraying at the cuffs, his hair just about needing a trim. He looked relaxed. Life with Sherlock must be going well.

I thought back to when Dad and I had finally talked openly about their relationship. Sherlock had told him about our rooftop conversation, so there was no hiding it anymore. It was strained at first, and Dad was obviously uncomfortable.

“I'm sorry,” he had started haltingly. “It must be hard to understand why we've been so...” he trailed off.

“Private?” I offered, trying to make it less awkward.

He paced a few steps. “It’s not because I was ever ashamed of how I felt. It’s because I was worried. I couldn’t picture --” he stopped, rubbed his hand agitatedly over his mouth. “I couldn’t picture being with him -- you and I living with him -- like a happy little family. It wouldn’t have worked. And I was afraid -- that if we got too close and he disappeared again, or got himself killed, or if something happened… I couldn’t do that. Not to me, and not to you.”

I sat there, silenced by his honesty.

“I know I’ve made mistakes,” he went on, pacing again. “I haven’t been the best father. But I tried to give you stability, a good home.”

My lip quivered and I could feel hot tears pricking behind my eyes. “Can I tell you something?”

He looked at me, his expression vulnerable.

My voice wavered. “I think you're a really good dad.”

They'd finally moved in together just over a year ago.

Before that, Sherlock had slowly stepped down his work, staying out of the limelight, lowering his profile. It was all for Dad and me, trying to make the transition to their new life together as non-public as possible.

Dad had taken his time weighing the implications of moving to Sussex, but he finally agreed to it. I think it was difficult for him to take the leap after all those years, but he quit his job at the hospital and sold our house once I was in school.

Things soon fell into place; Dad published the first book of cases, Sherlock brought home a dog unannounced, and they quickly figured out how to live together again.

Stamford was now curled at my feet and I rubbed his belly with my foot. “So I have a favor to ask,” I said. “It’s sort of an emergency.”

“Money?” Dad asked, raising an eyebrow dubiously.

“For once, no. It’s more of a social emergency.” I explained that my friend Emma was getting married in a month and had asked me to be a bridesmaid. I sighed. “I’ve been putting it off, but now I’m running out of time. I have to dance. Like an actual waltz with some groomsman I’ve never met. Can you teach me?”

“Good God, no. He’s hopeless.”

Dad glowered over the top of my head and I turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. He swooped down to place a quick peck on my cheek, then crossed to the cupboard to take down another tea cup, his long fingers sliding along Dad’s shoulder as he passed by.

“The expert can teach you,” Dad grumbled.

I grinned into my cup. I loved seeing them together, the little barbs, the bickering, the subtle touches communicating the affection running under it all.

After dinner, Sherlock started the waltz lesson, trying to drill into my head the concepts of three beats, making the shape of a box, quarter turns, and not looking down.

“I hate going backwards,” I complained, practically tripping over my own feet.

“Stop slouching,” he replied unsympathetically. “And let me lead.”

I gripped onto Sherlock's hand, which was strong and boney and giant compared to mine. Dad dabbled on the laptop, kindly pretending not to notice my lack of talent. I practiced doggedly until it started to feel less like an awkward lumbering and more like a fluid dance. Sherlock was an excellent lead, which helped.

“There's some hope for you,” Sherlock eventually acknowledged.

“Okay, okay,” I begged off, “we can practice again tomorrow.” I threw myself into a chair, tired from the day’s drive and mental exertion of coordination.

“Then it's time for a drink,” Dad announced, holding up a bottle.

What I learned that night was the futility of trying to keep pace with two battle-scarred men and 30-year-old scotch. I was a lightweight, my eyes growing heavy as I sank deeper into the arm chair listening to their stories.

I finally had to admit defeat and slurred good night. I went upstairs and brushed my teeth, then fell into the guest bed, pulling a quilt up to my chin. Stamford hopped onto the bed and curled into the crook of my legs, and I drifted off.

I woke to Stamford whining and pawing at my side. I groaned and tried to ignore him, but he was insistent. He needed to go out. I groaned again and sat up groggily, then followed him down the stairs. I let him out the back door in the kitchen, yawning while I waited.

I noticed a light was still on in the sitting room, so I shuffled toward the doorway to go switch it off. I heard the low strains of music before I saw them. I stood in the shadows, then leaned against the doorframe, watching in my sleepy scotch-induced haze, my knees going a little weak at the romantic scene before me.

They were dancing, slow and sentimental, stocking-footed on the woven rug. The fireplace was lit to ward off the nighttime chill, the flames casting a warm orange glow over the room. It was hard to tell who was leading, so leisurely they turned, Dad's head nestled into the curve of Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's cheek resting against his hair.

Their eyes were closed, oblivious to anything but each other, turning, perfectly in sync. Dad shifted, pulling back slightly to look up at Sherlock. Their eyes met and they gazed at each other, almost coming to a halt. Dad reached up to trace Sherlock's cheek with his fingertips, and they smiled softly, drawing together for a tender kiss, then resuming their slow swaying.

I stepped back, my eyes teary, my drunken heart brimming over for their happiness. Despite years of pain and obstacles, they were finally home, together, content, still very much in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock achieved! Retirement with bees and a dog achieved! A future Dr. Watson in the making, with a mysterious housemate in the flat below... could it be a brilliant but moody student in chemistry? I will let you decide.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed my ramblings. I'd love to hear any thoughts about the story you'd care to share!
> 
> **Edit to Add:** Guess what? I'm a fool for bittersweet angst and have written a companion piece to this story from John and Sherlock's POV: [Public, Private, Secret](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7000585/chapters/15948226).


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